Rogue Angel
by Late For The Sky
Summary: Home is behind/The world ahead./And there are many paths to tread. Or, how a lost soul found its way home. Written for the "In Memoriam" challenge over at SGA flashfic on lj. AU, set sometime before "Vegas" in Season 5.


Running. That's all he remembered, all he had ever known. Rest eluded him, though his body cried out for relief. His clothes were worn and faded, torn at the knees and chest and an amalgam of fabrics of his homeworld and of worlds he had travelled to. Pearl white scars showed starkly against the dusky color of his skin, advertising for the whole galaxy to see exactly what he was. He barely stayed on one planet for more than a day and a night, long enough to trade what little he had for food and drink before moving on.

He had a name once. He remembered being someone of vague importance, but that was before the Wraith. Now he was nameless and without position; lost and hunted, never part of a community or tribe. Many turned him away once they saw the hand-shaped scars on his chest, the badge of a Runner. His back ached occasionally, a grim reminder of the transmitter located there. He knew he had been saved from an immediate demise when the Wraith had beamed him aboard one of their Darts, but had not gained true life, merely a prolonged and assured death, perhaps a day or even years later at the hands of the Wraith.

He had, at first, tried to get the local healer or doctor of each planet he visited to remove the tracker, but all had refused, not wanting to bring the wrath of the Wraith upon them. He was tired. Tired of running, tired of having to scrounge for sustenance and searching for shelter.

He had been on the run for almost five years now, and his body showed it. He was lean, almost skeletally thin. His hair was held back from his face by a rawhide tie, and it fell to just below his shoulder blades even when tied back. He kept his beard trimmed with a pair of rudimentary scissors he'd traded for early on in his travels, and he had a well-kept metal knife hanging from the rough rope belt looped around his waist. He was deeply tanned and his hands were rough and chapped from exposure to the elements. His feet were covered in crude sandals that had been won by trading the last of a succulent fruit he had found on a previous planet oh so many suns ago.

He finally had reached the end of his rope and gave up, finding a deserted planet that he knew to have adequate shelter and food supplies and awaited the inevitable; for the Wraith to find him or for Death to make his acquaintance in another way. A week passed, and then a month. No sign of the Wraith. Had he done it? Had he finally escaped the harrowing specter of pale-shrouded eyes and deadly hands? He didn't know how long it would last, but he was determined to make the most of the time available to him. A sturdy shelter constructed in the stout boughs of a tree that achingly reminded him of oak tress back on Earth served as his airborne nest, bridges of tough vines reinforced with strong limbs made for easy pathways high above the decaying leaf mold below.

The Stargate was visible from a cleverly concealed watch-platform where he spent most of his days, the broad leaves above him a useful canopy for fending off rain and sun. Improvised weapons- a slingshot and flint-tipped spears- lay stockpiled within easy reach, ammunition neatly arranged for swift reloading. He kept expecting to hear the mosquito-shrill whine of Darts any day, now that he'd stopped Running. He'd accepted his fate and had come to peace with himself, even though he barely knew by now who that was. He was at the mercy of Fate's mercurial whim, and there wasn't anything he could do to change that.

The low rumble of the Stargate activating woke him from a light slumber some six months into his residency here, dark brown eyes narrowing against a sudden shaft of sunlight lancing through the leaves. He waited for the whine of a dart to pierce his eardrums, but nothing came. The event horizon rippled, and the robotic arm of a M.A.L.P. came through, followed by the main body trundling along behind it. He gasped and hurtled towards it, descending from his arboreal perch as fast as he could.

The robotic machine came to a halt at the base of the crumbling stone steps and the camera panned round, whirling on its circular track. He ran across the grass, a harsh cry emerging from his throat. 'Hey, over here!' His voice was rough from disuse; he hadn't had any human contact for months.

The camera swung 'round again, honing in on his lanky form. Panting, he stopped next to the M.A.L.P. and knelt down on the ground beside it. A screen flickered to life and a black and white image of the Atlantis Control Room appeared. He could see the familiar faces of Doctor McKay, Major Sheppard, and Teyla, though there were two men he didn't recognize- a balding man and a younger man in dreadlocks.

'Hello, there!' the balding man said, a faint smile on his face. 'My name is Richard Woolsey. We're peaceful explorers and-'

'I know!' he said simply, grinning widely. 'You can't believe how relieved I am to see and hear you, Mister Woolsey. I thought-' He broke off, not trusting himself to continue.

Woolsey frowned. 'I'm sorry; do we know you?'

'God, yes. Well, _you_ don't, but Major Sheppard, Teyla, and Rodney certainly do. It's me- Peter. Peter Grodin.'

The Lanteans stared at him through the screen, disbelief and shock written across their faces. 'That's impossible!' Rodney finally spluttered, blinking rapidly. 'I saw the space station blow up, with you on it!'

Peter laughed harshly, throwing his head back. 'Really, Rodney, why would I lie?' he asked, shaking his head. 'Besides, it's not as if I can come back right away.'

'Why not?' John asked, narrowing his eyes.

Peter sighed and then sat back on his heels. His shirt shifted and his chest was momentarily bared, the pearly-white scars from the Wraith attack briefly visible.

'He's a Runner.' Said the unknown man on Teyla's right, leaning forwards slightly. 'He's got a tracker.'

'Which means I can't come to Atlantis until it's out. For that, I need Carson's help.' Peter replied, nodding. 'I've been here for over half a year, local time, and I haven't seen any Wraith yet.'

'Well, that's not surprising, given-' Rodney began, but John quieted him with a shake of his head.

'I'm not sure what else I can do to prove my identity to you; I know I'm looking rather scruffy right now, but there aren't many barbers who're willing to give a shave and a haircut to a Runner.' Peter smiled deprecatingly, and then sighed. 'Look, I'm sure you've got teams needing to go off-world. Why don't you contact me this time tomorrow? It'll give Carson the time to gather what supplies he needs, as well as getting a team together.'

'Peter. That sounds great in theory, but-' Rodney began, frowning slightly, but Peter cut him off.

'I'll see you tomorrow, then. Just make sure to keep the Jumper uncloaked so I don't run into it, okay? Grodin out.' He reached down and shut off his end of the transmission, just before the wormhole snapped out of existence.

He was going to go home. Perhaps now, he could finally rest.


End file.
